


A Better Place or Just a Better Way to Fall.

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 08:36:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freddy doesn't think of Will as a threat. Hell, he'd be able to outsmart Will with both his hands tied behind his back. Or the one where Freddy does whatever it takes to get the dirt on a new case, and Will has no other choice but to go along with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Better Place or Just a Better Way to Fall.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [falseidolls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/falseidolls/gifts).



> this is a genderswap! my personal Freddy Lounds looks a whole lot like [this](http://24.media.tumblr.com/602258f0097057d0f4e1d2e9c0e04192/tumblr_mloqwqahNz1rzoznmo1_500.png). and c'mon, eddie redmayne and hugh dancy. [need a visual](http://media.tumblr.com/403f28df524566cd29102f7a5b63792a/tumblr_mmt7jpQnGB1qdeg3ro3_250.gif)? I've taken most of Freddy's personality from the book version of Red Dragon, though this is set in the NBC Hannibal universe! hope you like it ^^

Freddy stares himself down. His eyes are narrowed, forehead creased. His reflection stares back.

The knot at the top of his tie is neat, perfect; stitching of his cotton shirt aligning well with the contours of his body. He checks the buttons, sees that they're all in the correct loops. There had been one too many times in the past when he had come stumbling back into his apartment fresh from an interview, and just as he'd find himself slipping into a state of utter excitement with thoughts of his weekly readers enjoying his newest article, he'd look down to find that the bottom loop of his shirt lay empty against the waist of his slacks. There would always be an extra button near his neck; lonely, unused. Embarrassing. He double checks the buttons.

His hair, mussed, lies irreparably askew atop his head, its faint red tint shining brightly under the harsh white light of his bathroom. He sighs heavily, able to count nearly each and every freckle that peppers his skin. Running a single fingertip along the bridge of his nose, he scoffs. His mother had always said freckles were minuet blessings; accents left by angels. This only makes him scoff louder. Angelic he may look, but an angel he's gladly not.

“This is your day,” he says to the mock Freddy in front of him. He keeps his eyes focused on his mouth, watching the way his lips wrap around his spoken words. “You will get that story...or so God help me.”

He rolls his sleeves up above his elbows, folding them neatly below his biceps, and with a solid nod and tug at his collar, Freddy Lounds stuffs his small tape recorder into the front pocket of his slacks. He takes his suit jacket from the back of his computer chair, and heads for the door.

*

Will Graham stands with hands on his hips, his head lowered. He's in a warehouse swarmed by police. Jack Crawford looms nearby with a look on his face that Freddy can't quite pinpoint. It looks like amusement, and a lot like annoyance. There's a hefty amount of space between Will and Jack—the other cops not bothering to bother. Will takes a step to the left, Jack sinks farther back out of his peripheral. To Freddy, it all looks like a dance. One they've enjoyed plenty of times before.

The air smells faintly of sawdust and wood chips. If he squints, Freddy's able to make out dark marks along the floor. Blood, undoubtedly. Pedestrians and curious bystanders try their best to peek inside, to see what it is that they've missed. There's a weight in the air that seems to hang down low, suffocating the surrounding streets and alleys. Florescent yellow caution tape decorates the opening of the warehouse, a reminder to the onlookers that even though they may think they want to see what's inside, they surely shouldn't. Freddy knows not a single one of them would manage to walk away without a handful of nightmares and cold sweats plaguing them night after night, telling them _you shouldn't have looked_. A smile creeps across his face as he thinks of what madness the warehouse holds. He wonders if Will can feel the madness.

The minutes pass by unbearably slow, each one seeming to dig into Freddy's temples like a spit. The clamor of voices echo through his head as they begin to trickle away. Some head back to their cars, others continue on down the road. By the time the police start to file out, all but Freddy and a few others have left the site, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't damn well pleased to have the open space and entirety of the scene, along with Will Graham, all to himself.

Well, that would be true if Jack and his boys in blue would just move their asses.

His legs begin to stiffen, his shoulders knotting up. The tape recorder feels heavy against his thigh as he twiddles his thumbs impatiently. How long has he been here? The start of a migraine blooms above his left eye, and the feel of the late afternoon September sun sits heavily on the back of his neck.

 _Just get the story_ , he tells himself. _Even if it's only the smallest bit of information. Make it work. So long as you have the foundation, you can make the structure. Add in whatever sounds best and from there, your story will build._ He straightens his back, tips his chin up. _One piece of information can mean the entire world_.

Will Graham steps out of the warehouse then, his glasses in one hand as the fingertips of the other rubs circles into his temple. Freddy's on him like a hawk.

“Will!” he shouts, hand upraised as if hailing a cab. “Will Graham!”

Will looks to him with startled eyes that turn hard in an instant. Recognition floods his face and he spins on his heels, back facing Freddy. He moves swiftly, quickly. Had he gone back into the warehouse, Freddy would have found himself waiting for more long, agonizing minutes, but instead, Will beelines towards the nearest patrol car.

Freddy quickens his steps, his hand still in the air. “Will, can I talk to--”

“Don't you have somewhere else to be, Freddy?” Will punctuates each word with disdain. It only fuels Freddy's fire.

“Actually,” he smiles. “I don't.”

“You're not getting in there.”

“Do you think I'm stupid? Of course I know that,” he scoffs, almost offended by how little Will expects of him. “I don't want in there anyhow. Too much blood and I get a little shaken, if you know what I mean.”  
  
Will says nothing.

“Look,” Freddy steps closer, trying not to pigeon hole Will between himself and the patrol car, though that's what happens anyway. He can practically feel the discomfort radiating between them. “All I want is information. What happened in there?”  
  
“Excuse me.” Will flattens his back against the side of the car, managing to weasel between the tight space of Freddy's front and the backseat door without touching a single inch of Freddy himself.

“Will, come on,” the word _please_ sits at the tip of his tongue, tasting like lead. He swallows it down, disregarding it completely. He is not one to beg. “I know you know what happened in there. Just tell me! I can get the story out, I can inform the people--”

“Of _what_?” Will stops, color rising to his cheeks. He's pale all over, dark circles below his eyes.

“Of the story,” Freddy says in a half defensive tone. “What else?”  
  
Will rolls his eyes, and starts for the warehouse. They both know as soon as he's inside, he's safe. Freddy can't have that.

He lunges forward, fingers grasping the loose fabric around Will's forearm. _The slightest bit of information_. “Anything at all,” he nearly pleads. “I want to know what happened.”

“Check the morning news stands,” Will says, snatching his arm back.

Freddy watches him go, ducking below the caution tape. A curse bubbles up the back of his throat, threatening to overtake him.

*

He wastes no time heading back to his car. He slips behind the steering wheel, and opens the glove compartment. A bundle of wadded up old notebook papers lie inside, all with old writings and articles spilled across the margins. He rummages through them blindly, using only his fingers to find what he's looking for. As soon as he feels cold metal touch his skin, he grins to himself. Pulling out a pocket knife, he checks the blade. Razor sharp.

*

The benefits of being an investigative journalist is becoming aware of your surroundings. You learn how to be in constant stealth mode. Slipping between the tightest cracks of the floorboards, hiding away in every nook and cranny. It's an art, Freddy knows. He's been chasing stories his whole life. And now is the prime time to put his talent to use.

He walks along the outskirts of the crime scene, keeping an eye and an ear on the policemen littering the area. They're scattered around, not paying much mind. They all know his face, they know why he's here. And Freddy knows just as well as they do that Jack Crawford would have their heads for even _thinking_ of speaking to him. It's safe to think of himself as alone in the large parking lot. The onlookers are too enthralled with the excitement with the FBI to notice the lanky redhead who seems to be taking inventory of the vehicles.

One lap around the place and Freddy's able to pick out Will's car easily. It's parked next to Jack's. He rolls his eyes. Of _course_ it's parked next to Jack's.

Carefully and quietly, Freddy creeps around the passenger side of the vehicle. He leans down as far as his legs will allow him without fully crouching to the ground, and with his knife in hand, he stabs into the front right tire. He breaks the surface, feels the rubber glide along the blade as he plunges it in. Satisfied, he rights himself, gives the parking lot a single glance, and upon finding that nobody is looking his way, leans in and rips the blade from the tire. There's a loud _pop_ as the air escapes and the car slouches on its side.

*

Jack leaves first. Freddy watches from behind the safety of his windshield as Crawford gets into his car and drives off. Two patrol cars are close behind, heading in the opposite direction. A large van circles the parking lot before choosing the space nearest the warehouse. Ballistics. Freddy can tell by the uniform alone.

 _Gun wounds_ , he thinks. _Or at least gunshots._ He makes note of it on a torn piece of paper.

It's another ten minutes before Will emerges from the scene. He's polishing his glasses on the front of his shirt, and there's a beanie covering his head that wasn't there before. Freddy has to stop himself from bounding from his car and leaping onto Will, demanding him to tell Freddy _why_ ballistics are there. He waits, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

Will stops to talk to countless members of the force. He looks none too pleased about something. Freddy's gut turns. He taps his hands against the steering wheel, his eyes never leaving the back of Will's head as he makes his way to his car. Will crawls behind the wheel, starts the engine—Freddy can hear it rumble from his own car. He imagines Will throwing the gear shift into reverse, ready to head home and mull over the information that he refuses to share, but just as his foot comes down on the gas, he'll hear an unusual sound. Something similar to metal scrapping against itself, and the flap of rubber against pavement. He'll wonder what that sound is, and--

Will steps out of his car. The engine is still running. He checks the front left tire. Nothing. He looks at the back tire, then the back right, and finally...

Freddy sees Will slouch forward, his hands scrubbing at his face as he sees what the problem is. He kicks his car, mouth moving over words that Freddy wishes he could hear.

He smirks, starts his own engine. Flipping a U-turn, Freddy follows the guides of the parking lot until he's able to pull up right next to Will, who's cursing under his breath.

“Troubles?” Freddy asks. He masks the smugness in his voice with false concern.

“Why are you still here?” It's a rhetorical question, but that doesn't matter.

“Seems like you should be happy I'm here.”  
  
“Trust me, I'm not.”

“Need a lift?”  
  
“If I had half a mind—which I _do—_ I'd think you had something to do with this.”  
  
Freddy forces a gasp, knits his eyebrows together. “I'm a journalist, Will. Not a heathen. Why would you even think that?” _I'd like to thank the Academy_. “Besides, should you really be fishing for a fight when I'm the only one here who can help you?”

“I have a phone,” Will deadpans. His back is turned, his head hung low. He reaches a hand into his jacket pocket and pulls out his cell. “I can call Triple A easily.”

“Yeah, and then what?”  
  
“A cab.”  
  
“Those cost money.”  
  
He laughs, the corners of his mouth pulling up just a bit too much to be taken seriously. “Knowing you, I'd have to make some kind of payment, too.”

“Not in cash,” Freddy says with a grin.

“I'll take the cab.”

“Jesus, Will, what's your deal?”

“ _Me_? You've got some nerve being around here, you know that?”  
  
“You're not still pissed about that article, are you?”  
  
Will faces him, his eyes narrowed down to slits. “You called me a psychopath.”  
  
“Oh, I did _not_. I said you have the _mindset_ of a psychopath. Big difference.”  
  
Will exhales loudly, dials a number on his phone and brings it to his ear. He talks quickly, explaining that he has a flat and needs a tow truck at the corner of Smith and Washington. He says his thank you's and hangs up. For a moment, Freddy thinks Will's forgotten he's there at all as he grumbles to himself, “It shouldn't take forty minutes to get a truck out here.”

“Hey, c'mon,” Freddy presses a button on his door and clicks the locks out of place. “Let me at least get you something to eat while you wait. It's not like you want to left here with that--” he tips his chin towards the crime scene, “anyway.”  
  
Will glares hard enough that Freddy thinks his face may break. It's an amusing thought. He has to bite his lower lip to stop himself from smiling.

“You're not going to leave, are you?” Will asks. His voice gives away that he's already been defeated. He rounds Freddy's car without waiting for a response and, with his jacket sleeve covering his hand, opens the passenger door. Once he's tucked into the seat, Freddy turns the engine and steps on the gas.

Will's struggling with the seat belt when Freddy takes a sharp left turn out of the parking lot, sending Will flying into the window. “Can you at least wait until I get the damn belt on?”  
  
“Calm down. You're not gonna go sailing through the windshield if that's what you're afraid of.” Freddy reaches for the radio dial and turns up the volume. Immigrant Song bleeds from his speakers, drowning out Will's smart-ass retort. “What do you want to eat?” he calls over the music.

“I don't care, just don't take long.”

*

They stop at a roadside burger joint three blocks away from the warehouse, and Will's jumping from the car before Freddy gets a chance to throw it in park.

“You bitch about the belt, but you hop out of moving vehicle. You're one of a kind, Graham.”

“I couldn't sit in there any longer. It smells like you dumped an entire bottle of cologne on the seats.”

“Smells good, huh?”

Will doesn't speak.

Stepping from the car, Freddy feels a rush of cold air hit his bare forearms. He shivers slightly, and reaches into the backseat, grabbing his suit jacket. He doesn't bother to pull down his sleeves before throwing it on.  
  
“How about you leave that in the car?” Will asks as soon as they've reached the entrance door.

Freddy, confused, tilts his head to the side. “What?”

Will motions to Freddy's crotch.

And again, he asks, “ _What_?”

“The goddamn tape recorder. I can see the outline in your pocket. Leave it in the car.”

“Is that your way of saying that you're going to talk?”

“No. But, get that thing away from me.”

Freddy fights the urge to tell Will to fuck off and—more or less stomping his way to the car—goes back to the parking lot. Will watches him from the entrance until he seems bored. He heads into the building just as Freddy fishes the recorder from his slacks.

He sighs heavily, annoyed and irritated. Tossing the recorder onto the center console, Freddy almost shuts the car door before realizing that his jacket has pockets, too. Ones that won't give away what's inside of them. He glances wearily to the restaurant before sliding the device into his coat and shutting the door.

The place is nearly empty when he steps inside. A couple sits in a far corner, speaking amongst themselves, hands clasped together on the table. An elderly man of at least sixty is reading a newspaper— _USA Today_ —at a lonely, empty table. The front page is halfway folded over, but Freddy's able to catch sight of one of the headlines.

_Secret Court Rebuked N.S.A. on Surveillance._

_One day_ , he tells himself. _I'll be headlining USA, and my name will be there in big, bold letters. People will know who gave them their story first._

“Lounds!”

Freddy looks up, finds Will at the cash register. He blushes brightly, knowing that each and every one of his freckles are standing out much more than before, and hurries to where Will stands. He orders the two of them plain burgers with fries, looking to Will as he tells the woman their food order. Will gives no sign of distaste. He's certain Will would have let him order the entire fucking menu without piping in. It's going to be hard to get him to talk, he's making that loud and clear.

They choose a table in the back; Will on one side, Freddy across from him. Two cups of soda sit between them. Cyndi Lauper's _Time After Time_ plays over the loudspeaker. It's all very trying.

The silence continues long after their food is served. Neither of them touch their burgers.

“Okay, let's try this again,” Freddy says. He shrugs off his jacket and swings it over the back of his seat.

Will sits back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “I'm not telling you anything.”

“I promise I won't say a single thing out of line.”

“That's a pretty bold thing for you to say.”

Freddy sighs, hangs his head. “You've got to understand that I'm just doing my job. I'm an investigative journ--”

“I know what your job is, Freddy.”

“Then stop making it difficult! You'll have to tell someone about all of this in the end, so why not tell me?”  
“Because I don't like you.”

“You say that, but you don't mean it. You like me because you can keep an eye on me,” Freddy leans his elbows on the table, inching himself closer. Will tries to smash himself farther into his seat. “You can't keep those other reporters in line, can you? With me, if you're unhappy with something, you have the luxury of telling me directly how much you despise my story. Might even be able to fight me into changing some things around. Them? Not a chance. _Besides_ , it's not like I'm spitting newspapers out left and right. It's a goddamn website.”

“With a healthy following.”

“Not as healthy as the _Post_ ,” Freddy mumbles. He ignores the jealousy in his own voice. “How about this? I'll lend you my ear for the evening. You don't have to tell me too much, but just give me something to run with.”

“What makes you think you deserve that?”  
  
“Get off of your high fucking horse, Will!”

The couple stops chatting long enough to give the two men a questioning glance.

Lowering his voice, Freddy continues, “Think of this as a food chain. You have your psychos and your murderers. They give you something to do with your day, don't they? Now, you give _me_ something to do with mine. I mean it when I say anything will do.”

Will shifts in his seat, his mouth pinching up, brow furrowed. He looks as if he's thinking about it, and Freddy's heart begins to hammer in his chest.

“Alright,” Will says, sitting up. “Fine. But I'll tell you what I want, no questions asked.”

Freddy beams, “Yeah, okay. Okay.”

“I mean it. I don't wanna hear you asking me to go further into a topic. I'll give you the bas--” Will's phone rings, shrill and loud. The couple looks over again. “Graham,” he says into the mouth piece. “Jack?” There's silence that makes Freddy's skin crawl. Something's happening—something he needs to know.

Will makes a move to stand, to get away from Freddy and to find privacy. Freddy moves faster, though, putting up a palm and telling Will to sit back down. He reaches into his jacket pocket where the tape recorder sits, along with his cell phone. He clicks the record button gently, hearing the faint _click_ of the tape whirring. He then takes his phone out, waving it around in front of Will who's gone deadly silent.

Freddy mouths, _I'll be in the bathroom_.

Will shoos him away.

*

Freddy dials the first number that comes to mind as excitement sits heavily on his chest like a weight. The phone rings a handful of times, all the while he whispers fiercely, “ _Come on, pick up. Pick_ up.”

“Thank you for calling the Tattle Crime hotline. If you have a story you'd like to--”

“ _Jane_ , it's me. It's Freddy! I have great fucking news!”  
  
Jane, Freddy's one and only assistant at Tattle Crime, squeals a loud, “ _Fredd-y_!” into the phone, accenting the last syllable as if her life depends on it. “Where have you _been_? I've received five different phone calls all relating to one story, and I think you'll be interested in it.”

“Yeah, sure. Tell me later, okay.”

“Why? What's wrong? Where are you?”

“Get this. I'm at some hole in the wall diner with the one and only Will fucking Graham.”

“ _Will Graham_?”  
  
“Did I stutter?”

“How did you get him there? Oh, Freddy. I hope you didn't do something _bad_.”  
  
Freddy scrunches up his nose, his migraine returning. Jane's always so _loud_. “I didn't do anything bad.”

“You always say that, but you're always hiding something. You know, one of these days you're gonna get caught.”

“We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. This is important so listen up!”

There's silence on the other end. He's quite surprised.

“I've talked Will into telling me about the crime scene today. He agreed all on his own, alright? So, don't start harassing me and asking if I did something dumb. All I did was ask.” He knows it's a lie, she knows it's a lie. They both let it go. “He's on the phone right now with Jack Crawford. I bet you a million bucks they're discussing the case right now.”

“Has he told you anything yet?”

“No, not yet. Jack, that damn pain the ass, called right as he was about to spill the story. But, listen, I've got my recorder in my coat pocket. Wanna know where my coat is?”  
  
She humors him and asks, “Where?”

“Resting on the back of my chair at the table. Will's _at_ that table.”

She gasps loudly, a smile evident in her voice. “Freddy!”

“I know, I know,” he starts chewing his nails. “This could be it, Jay. We're gonna get the story we need and it'll be posted before any other paper has the details. We'll be first on the map. Can you imagine what that's going to do for us? Tattle Crime will be fucking _history_. I'm talkin' actual newspapers. Printed words, lining the shelves at convenience stores and gas stations. Freddy Lounds all over the front page. My name's gonna be big, Jane, and from there, we can go wherever we want. No more following around these Baltimore cops. We can go to Boston if we want. We can check out New York. Hell, maybe one day my stories will be in the big named papers.”

“No,” Jane says, calmly. “No, Freddy. Your name won't be in those papers. You'll have your own paper, and it'll be better than the _Times_.”

“God, you're _right_.” He's getting excited now, his heart ricocheting off his ribcage. He can feel his face growing warm, his fingers twitching slightly. “I'm gonna head back, maybe he's done by now. I'll give you a ring when we're finished.”

They say their goodbye's and hang up.

Freddy looks at his reflection in the spotted mirror.

“Better than the _Times_ ,” he repeats Jane's words, smiling wide.

Running a hand through the top of his hair, he tries to comb it down. It won't stay. He watches, annoyed, as pieces of his hair pop back up into place, mocking him. It's hard to appear professional when you constantly look as if you've spent your evening rubbing a pillow on the top of your head. He exhales, wets his fingers in the sink, and tries again.

*

When he gets back to the table, Graham's sitting with his cell phone face down on his food tray. Elbows propped on the table, hands clasped together with a napkin between them; he's chewing a bite of his burger.

“Crawford?” Freddy asks, taking a seat. He slips his phone back into his jacket and feels for the recorder. It's there, untouched.

Will nods, wiping the napkin across his mouth. He takes a drink of his soda, swishing the ice around in the cup. It's a long time before he talks. “What is it you wanna know?”

“What happened in there? I saw the ballistics team. I know there were gunshots somewhere.”

“What else did you see?”  
  
“Blood on the floor.”

“That's a given.” Will straightens his spine, squaring his shoulders. “Alright. Like I said before, don't ask questions. So far, what we're able to gather--”  
  
“Don't give me any of that, Will. I know the little tricks you're able to pull.”

“Ah, that's right,” Will taps a finger against his chin. “How else would you have known I have a, uh, _psychopath's mindset_.”

Freddy bites back an insult.

“But, remember who holds the information here. I'll tell you what I want to tell you. That's it. I'm not giving you my own personal diagnosis of the situation. Just the facts,” he slouches back down. Freddy can see that his fingers are shaking. “We're fairly convinced that the suspect is an African male, middle aged. The victim is male, white, early thirties. I would say it's a crime of passion.”

“Why--”

Will lifts a hand, stops Freddy dead in his tracks. “People who were at a local bar last night say they saw these two men together. You know, knocking back a few, laughing like they're buddies.”

“What's the victims--”

“Paul Lyndon. I said no questions. He works for the law firm up on Hampton, Whitley-Cornor Co. You know the one?”  
Freddy nods, completely oblivious. He'd agree to know who the fucking head of department was if it meant Will would keep talking.

“It's a safe bet to guess that our suspect also works for this law firm. Jack's out questioning the employees, trying to get the dirt on Lyndon. A lot have said he was real chummy with a colleague of his by the name of Samuel Harris. The two of them seem to be decent friends. But here's the catch,” he points directly in Freddy's face. “Word around the office is that Lyndon was getting close with Harris' wife. Rumors of an affair were already well lit before Jack and his boys showed up there, and apparently, Harris has quite the temper.”

“Crime of passion,” Freddy whispers, leaning back in his seat. He feels elated. Wanting nothing more than to shove Will back into his car and dump him off outside of the-- “Wait!”

Will looks up from his food. “What?”  
  
“Why at a warehouse?”  
  
“The bar they were at is only a block up the road. He thought it was discrete enough.”

“Well, he was right. Got away with it, didn't he?”  
  
“We'll see about that.”

“What if he's not the right guy?”  
  
“There's a seven to one chance that he _is_ the guy. If you want to be that one percent that likes to question the job that I do—which, Freddy, I know that you are—then so be it. At this time, Samuel Harris is our prime suspect. He didn't go into work today. Called in sick, said he had the flu. That doesn't look too good, does it?” He's challenging Freddy, trying to see if he'll do anything out of line. “Leave the investigating to the FBI, huh? You may get clearer answers than if you did it on your own.”

“Well, hey. You have your job, I have mine. And alright, yeah. I'll roll with this.” Freddy's too excited to pay attention to the annoyance in Will's voice. Either way, he wouldn't care as it is. He has his tape, still collecting all of their words and exchanges, locked tightly in his jacket. He has nothing to worry about.

Will stands then, crumpling up the paper that held his burger. Freddy looks down at his own untouched food and grimaces. He's not hungry anyway. He takes Will's trash and his own to the waste bin, mulling over the story he's going to write.

_A broken heart refusing solace._

He chuckles. _That's pretty damn good_.

*

“I've got one question I have to ask.”

Will huffs out a sigh, clicking his seat belt into place. “You've already asked enough.”

“No, really. I promise. Just one more.”

Will waits.

“If Lyndon was sleeping with Harris' wife, then how did Harris find out? Did he catch them in bed together? What?”  
  
“Chances are, no. No man in their right mind would go out to have a few beers with the husband of the woman they're screwing if the husband knew about it. Or, if the culprit _thought_ the husband knew. I doubt they were caught red handed, but it's possible that Harris found Lyndon's toiletries at his house. Maybe he smelled Lyndon's cologne on his pillow. A man capable of what Harris did sure doesn't need a good reason to kill.”

“What _did_ he do?”  
  
“I'm not answering anything else.”

“ _Will_ \--”

“You're the reporter. You'll figure it out.”

“What about the wife?”

Will stares straight ahead.

Freddy grumbles to himself as he turns the key, starting the engine. Lynyrd Skynyrd blares from the speakers, giving Will a start. He begins to fumble with his pockets, Freddy watches from the corner of his eye.

“Wait,” Will moves his hands to his jean pockets. “My phone--”  
  
Freddy perks in an instant. “I'll get it,” and he's out of the car before Will has a chance to unlatch his belt.

Walking quickly, he makes his way back to the restaurant. He can see the glare of the lights on Will's cell that's sitting perfectly unguarded on the table. He's smiling to himself as he picks up the phone, turning it over and over in his hands. He moves fast, his thumbs gliding over the keyboard. Unlocking the screen and opening the messages, he finds one from Jack Crawford. It states: _43_ _rd_ _and Jackson_. Freddy's brow creases. Maybe it's the location of Harris' house. Maybe it's where Harris is hiding out. It has to be. Will had said Hampton. Not Jackson.

He locks the phone back up, holds it tightly. Heading back to the car, he tosses it in Will's lap, and drives to the warehouse.

*

Triple A is waiting when they arrive. The guy, a surly man with a beet red face, asks Will,

“Is this your car?”

Will gives him a nod. He takes the beanie off of his head and tucks it into his coat pocket. Freddy rolls down his window and calls out,

“Thanks for the story!”  
  
“No problem,” Will says. There's an unsettling smug smile on his face when he turns to Freddy, still walking backwards to his car. “Hey, Freddy,” he calls. “When you were learning all of this journalist crap, were you ever told not to believe everything you're told?”  
  
Freddy tilts his head. “Yeah, why?”  
  
“Just asking.” Will faces his car again, pulling out his wallet. He's speaking with the man, and Freddy can't hear him.

Throwing the shift into reverse, Freddy lifts his foot from the brakes and begins backing out. He's switching into drive when he hears Will shout,

“Hey, one more thing, Lounds!”

Freddy looks up.

“Thanks for this,” he pulls out a cassette tape from his pocket, waving it between his thumb and index finger. “I'm sure it'll be a fun one to listen to.”

Freddy's heart races, his blood runs cold. He claws for his jacket in the backseat and turns out the pockets. The tape recorder still lies inside, the recording button no longer pressed down. He flips open the device and finds it empty.

“What the _fu_ \--”  
  
“And Freddy?”  
  
He glares through his windshield.

“I'm expecting you to pay the tab on all of this,” Will motions to his flat tire. He pulls Freddy's pocket knife out of his jeans and smiles. “When I have a hunch, I'm usually right. Oh, and don't go snooping around Whitley-Cornor, alright? You'll be wasting your time.”

Freddy watches, dazed, as Will climbs into the tow truck. He's angry—no, _no_. He's fucking _livid_. Who the hell does Will Graham think he is? His cheeks are burning, he knows his face is redder than the tow trucker's, and he couldn't give two shits less. Will has his tape, has his knife. He can't pin a damn thing on Freddy, but they're both aware of what happened.

“The phone,” Freddy growls to himself. “He knew I'd go and get the fucking phone.”

He waits until the tow truck leaves with Graham's car hooked safely to the backside, before beating his fists against the steering wheel. He throws the car back into park and proceeds to thrash around angrily. This is _not_ how it was supposed to play out.

 _The story_ , he thinks bitterly. _You almost had it._

But, wait.

Freddy stops moving, stops breathing.

43rd and Jackson. He still has 43rd and Jackson. Will won't get the last word in this, no way. Not on Freddy Lounds' watch. No one makes a fool of him.

With his heart still racing and his temples throbbing, Freddy throws the gear into drive, and stomps on the gas hard enough to hear the wheels screech along the pavement. He'll get to the bottom of this, even if it kills him.

Though, he can't help but smile joylessly to himself. Maybe he _did_ underestimate Will Graham. But Will will soon find out that a small bump in a journalist's road doesn't stop him, and maybe Will already knows that. Maybe Freddy will pull up to 43 rd and Jackson and find nothing there. And if that's the case...well, Freddy still has Tattle Crime. He'll be sure that Will sees his next article, and he'll be sure that Will won't like it. Not one single bit.


End file.
